


I'm OK, You're OK

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [96]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Breathplay, F/F, Light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8314198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: Just two gal pals and one of them hurts the other. Perfectly normal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: could you (pretty please) write some clara/lady me bondage smut, preferably with some hardcore breathplay? something to do with how neither of them NEED to breathe so they can do more extreme things without worrying about hurting each other

It was sweet, at first. Like it’d been with Jane. Clara had taken Me’s hand and there’d been a pause, and a question, and a loaded glance. Me had tucked a stray lock of Clara’s hair behind her ear and swallowed hard. And then she’d kissed Clara, on tiptoes and her palm flat, hesitant against Clara’s lower back.

They’d taken their time, since they had plenty of that. Cautious, careful - fuck this up, and then where would they be? Dates, ish, depending on whether your definition of the word was broad enough to include explosions, ‘demon’ possession, homicidal robots, and natural disasters. A dinner, once, where Clara failed to not light the TARDIS kitchen on fire. Another dinner in a space-restaurant where they’d remembered too late neither of them had any money.

 

Clara learned Me had two scars, one on the back of her left hand and one on her right knee, both earned before they’d first met. Me knew about the mole on Clara’s collarbone, the spiderweb-thin silvery stretchmarks on her thighs. A mutual understanding of the panic, the rug-slip vertigo Clara felt, sometimes, on the re-realization that she wasn’t breathing, and her heart wasn’t beating.

It’d been sweet and kind and gentle, at first. Lying in bed together, curled up close. Quiet, reassuring. Co-anchored, something to come home to. Something nice.

So file it under the big list of Evidence Clara Oswald Has Issues: it isn’t enough. Or, it is, but there’s still. Something else. Something desperate and selfish, something fucked-up and it’s fucked-up she wants that when she already has so much.

 

* * *

Lying in bed, Me behind her, her arm wrapped around Clara’s belly. You know what they say about hugs.

“You’re thinking,” Me says. “Out with it.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s always something.”

It always, always is. “It’s just. We don’t change.”

“I’d noticed.”

Clara imagines she can feel Me rolling her eyes. “You can’t. I could, I just. Don’t.”

“Right.”

“So.”

Me sighs heavily. “I don’t care how long I live, I will never have time to beat around the bush. Please. Clara. Spit it out, or so help me.”

Clara rolls around, faces her for a second before bailing, tucking her head below Me’s chin. “I could - bruise. Get a tattoo, a real one. Cut my hair. I won’t bleed, or scar, but. You could-”

She feels Me breathe in hard at that. Me’s been around the block more than a few times, she must know the, the _implications._

“I’d be honored,” Me says, leaning back, tilting Clara’s chin up with her forefinger.

 

* * *

 

(If Clara still thinks that self-destructive urge is anything new, she’s lying to herself.)

 

* * *

 

It turns out Clara can’t bruise, actually. They don’t test the tattoo thing - too soon. But she can, and does, hurt. An anchor: the here, the now, herself in her body. Nothing lingering but in the moment, there’s this. Me’s close-cut fingernails on her skin, and then teeth, and then a variety of accoutrements. Wax, flogs, handcuffs. A knife once before Clara discovers how uncomfortable the unbleeding, unhealing cut made her. That new blur between pleasure and pain; a feeling, any feeling, good enough.

Me is mostly curious and obliging. Gifted a responsibility and taking it seriously. An almost motherly instinct kicking in as she wraps Clara up in blankets, after. Holding her until she stops trembling. One automatic response neither of them can shake.  

 

* * *

 

(Clara would like to stress that it’s not weird, like some incest role-play thing. Just two gal pals and one of them hurts the other. Perfectly normal.)

 

* * *

 

“What’s it like,” Me says quietly. Her arms loose but deliberate around Clara. “Not having to breathe?”

“Dunno. Weird. What’s it like having to breathe?”

“Weird.”

Clara is tense beneath her hands. Another automatic response she hangs onto. “You could do - anything. I mean. Anything could happen to you, and you’d heal.”

“Within reason.”

“So.”

Oh, just spit it out.

“Everything you do for me. You ever want it for yourself?” Clara worms her way out of Me’s embrace, scrambles over to straddle her. Looking beautiful and young and dangerous, just like when they’d first met. Something wild in her eyes.

“Pain? No, not so much.” Been enough of that in her life. Over and over again.

“Not that, then. But remembering you’re alive. Remembering the value of things.” Clara runs her hands up Me’s sides, along her ribcage; palms her breasts briefly before moving up to her shoulders. And her neck. “They say it. Heightens, things. Oxygen deprivation.”

“Oxygen deprivation,” Me repeats blankly. All she can see is that one cut below Clara’s breasts that had never healed. Never would.

“I have no breath to hold. But you.”

“I do,” Me finishes. She wraps her hands around Clara’s wrists, gently, and guides them into place. Tacit consent. Her hands on Clara’s hands, urging them on, then falling back.

Something she takes for granted, breathing. Not now. She needs it, big bad immortal at the end of the universe. Still so very human. And an increasingly dizzy human, gasping (or trying to) and squirming, her cunt hot and throbbing against Clara’s knee as Clara’s hands tighten around her throat. She’s drifting, and she’s here, so very here, and it’s fucked-up but this is the first time in a while she really does want to keep breathing. Keep living. The Mire technology fixing her as she fails, and again, and again. It hurts and she needs it and she’s drifting out as her arousal builds, an abstract experience but something so deep in her. Half-in, half-out. Blanking and swimming through this as she comes, and then comes to.

“I told you,” Clara is saying. “It’s good. Isn’t it.”

Good is, maybe, the wrong word. Something new, though, or something she doesn’t remember. One of those. The Mire tech is already sweeping through her body, clearing out the bruises and the fuzzy-head feeling.

“This is fucked-up,” she says. Letting Clara curl up behind her.

“Tell me about it,” Clara says. She kisses Me on the back of her neck. “We make quite the pair, huh.”

“We make something, yeah.”

She leans back, and lets Clara hold her, and shuts her eyes tight, the universe spinning around her.

(Around _them_. They’re in this together, now.)


End file.
